Her green eyes were steely. Her jaw set.

It was an expression he's seen before; one he knew all too well. An expression that said he was about to have a very long day.

But something was not right with the woman in front of him. She wasn't wearing her blazer, her blouse. Her hair was long and loose and fell over the rough wool of her sweater. The one she had traded her earrings for.

The desk her fingers were splayed across, almost to steady herself, was not the sleek, polished desk aboard the Colonial One. It was rough hewn and covered with coloured papers. A yellow flower peeking out from between the pages.

He had barely opened her mouth to speak when her head snapped back. Her hair flying with the force of it.

Collapsed. Like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Eyes staring wide.

The neat hole in the center of her forehead colouring the pages scarlet.

Bill awoke with a strangled yell, tearing the sheet he was tangled in.

Panting, he sat up and leant against the wall of his bunk, pushing the cold sweat from his forehead with a shaking hand.

She's not dead, he told himself, swinging out of his rack and pouring a glass of water, the jug clinked against the glass.

She's not dead. Spilling more water down his tanks than he managed to swallow.

She's not dead. But behind closed eyelids her head snapped back again, and he opened them with a jolt.

She's not dead. Knowing full well that Laura would die before she surrendered.